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All my stress returned as I pulled my truck into the parking lot and recognized the fire-engine red Jaguar sitting by the front entrance.
What was he doing here, of all places?
The answer hit me before I even finished the question, and I quickly got out of my truck. I barely spared Nancy, the receptionist, a glance as I rushed through the empty waiting room of the clinic.
“Hey, Jake,” Becky, the head nurse, said as I passed the room where the charts were kept.
“Doc here?” I asked, knowing full well he was.
“In two with a patient,” she called.
“Thanks,” I said, then hurried to room two. I didn’t even bother to knock before throwing open the door. Doc and Oz both looked at me in surprise.
“Jake,” Doc said. “Did you need something?”
I ignored him because my eyes were on Oz.
But not on his face.
No, they were on his wrist.
His red, inflamed wrist that was clearly infected.
And there was only one reason it was infected.
Because I’d been too much of a fucking coward to check in on him to make sure it was healing properly.
Before I could even consider what I was doing, I looked at Doc and said, “It’s okay, Jai. I’ll take over here.”
The doctor stared at me but didn’t argue as he made his way out of the room and shut the door quietly behind him.
I reached for Oz’s injured arm, but he clutched it tightly to his chest.
“I’m fine. Dr. Sharma was helping me. You may go.”
My heart stuttered at his cold tone. It sounded so wrong coming from someone so warm and bubbly. I had done that. I had taken away his shine.
“Please let me look at it, Oz.”
He continued holding it protectively. “Not necessary. You made it clear I was to come here for help, so I did. Please go get the doctor back.”
“I just want to see what happened to your burn,” I insisted.
Oz’s jaw was tight, and his eyes were flecks of Arctic sky. “And I just want to see a doctor.”
“Dammit, Oz, I am a doctor, now show me your fucking burn!”
Those gorgeous blue eyes widened, and we just stared at each other. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d raised my voice like that.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
He shoved his arm at me. “Fine. Here.”
I took hold of his arm without another word and held it gently. Sure enough, it was infected. Without letting go of him, I reached into a nearby cabinet and gathered the supplies I needed to clean the wound.
“I knew you were a doctor,” Oz said quietly. “You lied to me.”
“I didn’t lie.”
“You said you knew first aid because you were a wilderness guide.”
“Not a lie,” I said. After a moment of silence while I worked on rewrapping the injury, I looked up to see him glaring at me. I let out a breath. “I’m sorry, Oz.”
“Pfft. Whatever,” he said with a sniff before looking away. “Why even tell me you’re a doctor when you could just tell me to get the fuck out and not let the door hit me on the way?”
I reached up to cup his face and turn it back toward me. His eyes skittered everywhere else but to mine.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. No one outside the clinic knows, and they only do because I volunteer here.”
His eyes finally landed on mine, one eyebrow quirking. “Why? Why in the world would you keep something like that a secret?”
“That’s not important. Just know that the reason I didn’t tell you has nothing to do with you and everything to do with a bunch of shit that you don’t even want to know about. But I truly am sorry. I shouldn’t have told you to come here instead of coming to see me. This is infected, and I’m going to get Doc Sharma to give you some antibiotics, okay?”
I noticed his jaw tighten, and I didn’t doubt his frustration with me. No one enjoyed being told something important was none of their business. But it wasn’t like I had a choice.
After double-checking his bandage, I made my way out to the hallway to find the doc and get the prescription.
“Friend of yours?” Doc Sharma asked with a grin as he scribbled on his script pad.
“Neighbor. Oz moved into Xander’s old place.”
“Ah. Nice kid. What’s his story?”
I shrugged. “Only here temporarily. From New York. He’s a clothing designer, I guess.”
Doc Sharma’s eyes studied me as he handed me the script. “Maybe keep an eye on your neighbor, Jake. He also had a badly bruised hip and deep scratch on his ankle. I’m not sure he’s used to living in the wilderness. The man needs a keeper.”
“He’s fine,” I growled. “Not my problem, anyway.”
His face lit up in a know-it-all grin. “Something tells me you’re wrong about that, Jake,” he said with a laugh.
